


us, yesterday, apart, in the twilight

by eudaimon



Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Berlin, in Bombay, he is watching her dance.  <br/>Kala and Wolfgang move closer.  It's inevitable, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	us, yesterday, apart, in the twilight

**Author's Note:**

> The Rilke poem referenced in this story is "Beloved".

_All the vast/images in me, in the far off, experienced, landscape/towns and towers and bridges and un-/suspected winding ways/and those lands/once growing tremendous with gods..._

In Berlin, he's reading (rereading) Rilke but, in Bombay, he has been watching her dance for what feels like hours. Since the first time he saw her, the thing that he's been most struck by is her skin: the luminosity of it, the way she seems to bleed light out of pores and the roots of her hair like a star. As he watches, she gathers the weight of her hair up into her hands. The thin stuff of her nightgown skates over the lines of her body as she turns in slow circles.

(He has pictured her naked many times. He knows that she knows this. She has never had to picture what he looks like naked. He does not mind).

“Are you watching, Wolfgang?” she asks and he nods, knowing that he's the only one that is, knowing that, for this, the others will give them space, like they all know to give each other, sometimes, when it's needed.

“Of course I'm watching,” he says. “I only have eyes for you.”

Somewhere, Riley's just put on her headphones and Wolfgang feels the music as vibrations in the cradle of his skull.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the human in.  
It's easier when it's with her.

Kala glances around as though making sure that they're really alone. Before all this, Wolfgang was often alone – he sought out solitude, craved it, but now? Now he finds that loneliness is finding its way in through the cracks. Since he's found them, it's harder to be alone. Last night, he lay with his head on Nomi's knee while she described computer systems like places that she'd been – like far distant countries. The day before that, he'd been with Riley and Will in a club in Chicago, dancing until he felt ready to skip his skin, arriving just in time to watch a sunrise with Caiphus. Before that, he sparred with Sun. Lito had grazed his lips against Wolfgang's jaw in greeting. 

Seven other selves...But he would always prefer to be here with her. He knows that none of the others would begrudge him that.

In Bombay, in Berlin, she comes to stand at the foot of the bed. He has never felt like this about a woman before – there have been many girls in his life, sure (the occasional boy, too) but never, ever anyone like her. 

So when she slips her nightgown down off her shoulders and her bare brown skin reminds him of why men might write poetry. 

This is going to be the first time – for her and for the two of them together. They have kissed often, touched regularly – he has cradled the weight of her breasts through silk, pushed his cock into the tentative touch of her trembling hand. Tonight, though – tonight she came looking for him with a very particular look in her eye. So he knew that she was ready. Knew exactly what came next. 

And here he is, at her mercy. He feels vulnerable because of her, like she's carved him open and left him for the light to find. It's lovelier than he would have expected. More terrifying, too. Which doesn't mean he doesn't crave it, crave anything to do with her.

“Kala,” he says. “Come to bed.”

Suddenly, even though this was her idea, she's shy, pressing her cheek against her shoulder, the tumble of her hair curtaining her face as she cradles her breasts, squeezing gently, silk between her fingers. There is a sudden, answering ache between Wolfgang's legs, his jeans too tight as his cock swells. He shifts, sitting forward, spreading his knees to cradle her between them. Gently, he grazes his fingers against the backs of her knees, slides his hands up the backs of her thighs to find the edge of lace panties. She bites her lip, still blushing, but she leans back into his hands too. Wolfgang tilts his head and looks up at her.

“You want this?” he asks because, right then, it seems important to hear her say it.  
“God yes,” she says, laughing. “All I've been able to think of is..” She makes a little dark gesture with ten fingers, “having your hands on me.”

He grins then, can't help, and squeezes her with both hands. She squirms in his arms. He realises that he has to be the adult here – here's the one with experience and she trusts him so now it's up to him to take her by the hand. Gently, more gently that he ever thought that he was capable of, he guides her to sit down on the bed beside him. He stands and takes a step away from the bed, turning to face her with his fingers already wrapped in the hem of his shirt. She's seen him naked already; this far, at least, they're still on familiar ground. He watches the way that her eyes widen, slightly, as he drags his shirt up over his head. He wonders if, before he appeared at her wedding, she'd ever seen a man naked before? He discards her shirt, drops his hands to his belt but she reaches out and stops his fingers with hers.

“Wait,” she says.   
“Oh,” he says, and he blushes, hates the fact that he does. “We don't have to...”  
“No,” she says, smiling as she starts to unbutton his jeans. “No, no. I mean...let me.”

And he does. He lets her strip him, steps out of jeans and underwear when they end up pooled around his ankles. He stands perfectly still and lets her touch him, lets her brush her thumb along the length of his cock. Fingers laced behind him, he stands there and lets her curl his fingers around his cock and stroke, slowly. He keeps his hips still, lets her dictate the place.

“Kala,” he says, finally, the syllables of her name trembling out him. “Please.”

She lets go of him then, leans back on the bed with the silk of her nightgown slipping down over her nipples to leave her breasts bare. She spreads her legs for him and, Christ, he has never wanted another woman in his whole life the way that he wants her.

He makes himself go slowly, makes himself take his time. He strips her out of the nightgown, takes a moment to savour long brown legs, the neat triangle of black hair at the meeting of her thighs. He gets down on his knees with his belly pressed against the edge of the mattress and uses his hands under her to pull her towards him before he bends and presses a kiss against her. He teases her with the tip of his tongue. Lost in the work of muscles of jaw and tongue and lips, he imagines a time when this part will come naturally, when they can begin to test other directions, when he might give her a brief, helpful order – when she might do the same for him. For now, though, there's the pull of her fingers in his hair, half pulling him away, half pushing him further in. His fingers dig into the soft undersides of her thighs. When he looks up, her hands are hovering over her breasts, barely brushing skin. He moans his approval into her, dropping one hand to stroke his cock as he licks and sucks, as she squeezes her breasts and rolls her nipples between her fingers.

Her back arches. Wolfgang never took music lessons as a child but he did used to know how to sing. In that moment, Kala is an instrument, the pleasure throbbing out of her one pulsing beat at a time. She comes on the tip of his tongue and, Jesus...Wolfgang can barely contain himself.

But he does. For her.  
Somehow, she always makes him feel like a better – less a monster, more a whole man. A man who is, at least, capable of goodness.

He kisses his way back up her body, mouths against her sternum, between the lush sway of her breasts. He remembers reading, somewhere, about the Yamuna river in India and how, if you were to bathe there, completely immerse yourself in the water, you might emerge free from fear of death.

Death is not something that Wolfgang fears. But there are other things.  
When he's with her, he feels like he could live forever.

Gently, he touches her, her arms, her ribs. He brushes her nipples with his thumbs.   
She rises to the touch.

“Please, Wolfgang,” she murmurs, and all of her lust and all of her longing is right there in the way that she says his name. He's spent so many years weight up control versus loss of control and he's so, so grateful when Kala reaches down and threads her fingers with his. 

“Ready?” he asks her.  
“So ready,” she says.

It's been a long time since it was the first time for him but, somehow, he feels clumsy, like a kid, as he settles between her thighs. His skin is so pale in comparison with hers, her long, smooth legs wrapped around his hips as he positions himself against her and then starts to slide his cock into her, inch by slow inch. He takes it carefully, slowly, because he knows that the idea that it's supposed to hurt a girl her first time is a myth propagated by men who don't know what to do with their dicks and he wants this to be good for her, a good memory. He doesn't ever want her to hurt at the thought of him, wants only good things to be associated with the memory of his face.

“Oh, my God,” she says, her hand fluttering against her face like a bird. “Oh, God, it's...it's bigger than I thought.”

He laughs, a huffed sound against the side of her neck. A man could get used to hearing things like that. Especially when it's her that's speaking.

A man could get used to being in her bed.  
Which is a dangerous thought, isn't it? 

It's not surprise that they know how to move together without practice – don't they know each other like whispered secrets? They kiss, hard, deep, like they're trying to claw their way inside each other. In the middle of the kisses, in the space between, Wolfgang catches glimpses of the others – Riley and Will on a distant beach, Capheus and Sun watching a movie. Amanita is doing spoken word and Nomi's heart is fit to burst with love. Wolfgang feels every moment of it, just as he feels every single twitch of his cock inside her, every brush of her breasts against his chest, every scrape of her nails against his back.

He wants to commit this to memory. More than anything, he wants to know her by heart. The sinew and bones of her...the lymph and the sinew and the blood. He wants to learn her like a poem. 

When he comes, it's all too much. Inexplicable tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, so he presses his face into the curve of her neck, the fragrant curls of her hair and rides it out. Still inside her, he squirms closer until she wraps her arms around him and holds on tight.

This, he realises. This is how he wants to live the rest of his life. So he'll buy a ticket to Bombay in the morning (he hasn't decided that yet, not really, not in the afterglow –but he will. Nomi would say that some things are already written down, just like that).

“Can we sleep here like this?” she asks, after he's slipped to the side, after she's curled in against his chest. “Can you stay?”

“I suppose that we'll find out.”

Who knows? But, in Bombay, in Berlin, he holds onto her as tight as he can.  
Because he wants that – more than he's ever wanted anything in his life.

A book falls to the floor as he shifts to get more comfortable. Rilke wrote about the how the future surges up when a man's in love.

Finally, strangely (but only with Kala in his arms), Wolfgang is almost beginning to feel like he could possibly have a future here.


End file.
